Avengers: The Nail
by Danrilor
Summary: The Avengers were Earth's Mightiest Heroes... nothing lasts forever.
1. Prologue

**Avengers: The Nail**

**Synopsis**: The Avengers were Earth's Mightiest Heroes… nothing lasts forever.

**Category:** Marvel

**Category:** Action/Adventure/Drama

**Rating:** PG 13 (T) for violence, strong language, and non-pervasive adult themes.

**Author's Notes:** This story was inspired by the Elseworlds Graphic Novel Justice League of America: The Nail, Which featured the impact of a world without Superman while letting the reader enjoy stories of the classic JLA doing all the classic JLA stuff. I wanted to give the Avengers of my childhood the same treatment, and this story is the result.

_**For want of a nail**_

_**the shoe was lost,**_

_**For want of a shoe**_

_**the horse was lost,**_

_**For want of a horse**_

_**the knight was lost,**_

_**For want of a knight**_

_**the battle was lost**_

_**So it was that a kingdom was lost -**_

_**All for the want of a nail**_

_**George Herbert (1651)**_

**Prologue:**

**1945**

The cold wind whipped into their face that day as they raced with destiny. Two young men with one purpose: to save the world… again.

"Lets do it!" Captain America yelled as Bucky peeled out.

They tore down the runway with speed that made their lips flap and their eyelids peel back, but they were barely gaining on the aircraft as it made its own way down the tarmac. Their hearts hammered as they saw the wheels rising up off the ground. They both knew that they were running out of runway, and there would only get one chance. As the aircraft finally took off, the runway ended in a cliff that plunged down to the churning waves of the Atlantic Ocean.

Then the world seemed to drop out from under them.

The front tire exploded, and the motorcycle bucked forward like a catapult. Captain America, riding on the back of the bike, was thrown into the air like a piece of rubble fired by a Trebuchet while Bucky tumbled over and over again on the cement. His world became a red haze of pain and confusion until he pitched over the edge of the cliff. To his credit, Bucky grabbed the edge of the cliff as he was hurled off of it, latching onto it with the surprisingly powerful grip one can only seem to summon out of the unrelenting need to survive. It was too late, though. Far too late.

If it had been any other man, he would have fallen to his doom with only a final death cry for the world to remember him by. But this was not any other man. He was Steve Rogers, Captain America, and he had reflexes and athletic ability that had stunned the world again and again. Fast enough to dodge bullets and strong enough to lift cars, he took the momentum of the bicycle crash and added the strength of his own two legs to it with an incredible thrust. Where other men would have cartwheeled though the air, he sailed through it like a red white and blue bullet. He hit the area of the plane between the tailfin and the wings with a teeth-rattling jolt, but his powerful arms secured his grip before he could roll off of it.

"Steve!" Bucky screamed as he saw Captain America soar off into the sky alone. It was all that he could do to hang onto the rocks of the cliff face.

Steve's super soldier serum enhanced mind worked like lightning as he clawed his way up the plane. He had to have faith that Bucky would be fine, because there was nothing that he could do about it. All that he could do was ensure that this plane never reached its destination. It was a drone plane, programmed with a suicide mission to crash into the White House. Even if he destroyed or disabled the bomb the plane could still kill countless people. He cursed the name of Heinrich Zemo as he looked at the wiring, and for a moment the thought crossed his mind to detonate the bomb prematurely… over the ocean where no one would be harmed. He quickly disregarded the idea, because it would amount to suicide. There was still life, and there was still hope.

"Zemo, you bastard… let's see how you like this." Cap snarled, pulling his shield from his back.

On the front of the plane was a propeller, and without it the plane would plunge into the ocean like a rock. It was dangerous, to be sure, but had far better chances of survival than a midair explosion.

_Let it explode underwater._ Steve thought to himself as he clawed his way toward the propeller with the straps of his shield clenched in his fist.

Bucky Barnes looked on in horror as he scrambled back up onto solid ground. Tears ran down his face as he saw the distant aircraft plunge into the waves below, with a red-white-and blue figure still visible near the cockpit. The explosion was almost blinding as it hit the surface, obviously rigged to explode on contact, and he felt raw emotion being torn from his throat in a single scream.

"STEVE! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" James Buchanan Barnes' cry echoed over the waves, for what seemed to be an eternity.

* * *

"This was all we found." The Naval Officer said sadly, handing the star spangled disc to General Donovan "It must have caught an air pocket under its curve or something, because it was floating on the surface near the wreckage."

Donovan looked down at the shield; half of its paint blasted away, and shook his head. Denial and disbelief would not change anything, but he could not believe what had happened today. It had always been in the back of his mind like a possibility, but he had never truly considered it. The man who had died today seemed like so much more than any man could be. He had seemed immortal… but had been all too human in the end. Wild Bill Donovan of the OSS fought back tears. It would do no good for his men to see him in this state. It was bad enough watching Bucky Barnes wrapped in an OD green blanket like a refugee, crying his eyes out with his mask discarded on the ground.

Donovan felt his feet walking toward Sergeant Barnes, and was not surprised when no salute greeted him. That much, at least, his mentor passed on to him.

"What… what happened here Sergeant?" Donovan heard himself say. "What killed Captain America?"

Bucky's mouth opened as if to say something, but then clamped shut with a sniffle. He held up one hand, clenched in a fist. Donovan looked at it for a moment, wondering if it was meant as a threat or a rude gesture. Then Bucky's red gloves fist began to slowly open like the petals of a flower, and revealed what he had been holding onto so tightly. Refusing to let go since he pulled it forth from the front tire of that wrecked motorcycle. Donovan did not know what it was at first, because it was such a small and insignificant thing to have killed such a great hero.

A single, rusty nail.

**Next:**

**Avengers**


	2. A World of Trouble

**Avengers: The Nail**

**Chapter One: A world of trouble**

_Pendleton, Oregon… present day_

The first rays of sunlight were beginning to peek over the majestic mountain range, keeping half of the hill in darkness and half in shadow. The crisp mountain air and relentless northern wind could bring tears to the eyes of a man unaccustomed to their icy sting. Three such men crawled up the hill through green grasses. They were crawling with their stomachs and heads pressed to the ground, as if their very lives depended on keeping their head and shoulders below the level of the high grasses. They had been crawling this way all night, only springing from their crawl for no more than three seconds to bolt between the trees where they briefly rested in the cover that they provided. They were swathed from head to toe in what many would call "Ninja outfits" of pixilated forest green camouflage. Every so often they crawled upon the discarded bodies of the men who had come before them, flies buzzing around their pale forms like a squadron of bombers. If the men felt any emotion at these discoveries, their masked faces did not show it. The continued to crawl, sticking to the natural shadows cast by tall Douglas firs older than the United States of America.

The point man saw the clearing ahead. The clearing that four previous assault teams had failed to reach. In the middle of the clearing was the kind of cabin that he thought existed only in fairy tales and old frontier paintings. Every log that was laid for the structure and every stick in the thatched roof had been placed there by human hands He found himself wondering, not for the first or last time, why they had not opted for an overwhelming airborne assault. He had hated this plan of action from beginning to end, and gnashed his teeth when he thought of what a senseless waste it was. For all he cared, this individual that they were seeking could rot in this cabin that he had turned into his own personal fortress. This was only one man. A dangerous man, to be sure, but at the end of the day only a man.

Agent 20 would just keep telling himself that.

It surprised him how quickly it happened. At first he heard a snap, and a pull on his body as if he had been yanked into the sky by a giant hand. He saw the agent on his left jump from cover to try and pull him down, but just as quickly fall to the ground as a whistling noise split the air a second later. He hung there, his world literally turned upside down, as a rapid succession of silenced assault weapon fire showed that his remaining comrade was providing withering fire into the brush before them. It took another moment before he realized that he was hanging from one leg by a weather-ravaged rope, and must have looked to their target like the grand prize in a turkey shoot. It only took a moment for him to pull his K-bar out of the sheath across his chest and do a power sit up, grabbing the rope to cut himself down. The fall from this height might kill or cripple him, but if he stayed up there he was a dead man.

Agent 20 felt his heart sink as he heard the machine gun fire end with a sharp yelp. Turning his head as he sawed at the rope, feeling the burn in his abdominal muscles from holding that unnatural position, he saw that he was now alone. Desperately he dropped the knife and pulled his sidearm, scanned the perimeter, wondering why his quarry had not finished him off. In another moment, the rope snapped and he braced himself for the inevitable collision with the ground. The accursed whistling noise assured him that the broken rope was not his work, and after the jarring impact with the ground he rolled almost fifty meters down the hill. It was only a brutal crash into the unyielding trunk of a giant fir tree ended his headlong tumbling. He groaned as the wind was knocked out of his lungs, and once again wondered why he was here. His hands groped around in desperation, but he had lost both of his weapons. He still had a chance if he could get to the weapons of his fallen comrades, but as he lay there wheezing he was certain that he could not make the fifty-meter spring uphill to get them. There was only one option.

Play dead.

The seconds turned into minutes as he consciously slowed his breathing, and then held his breath. He lay perfectly still, clutching the grenade under his body. He had not been authorized to bring it, but he had surreptitiously acquired one from the armory anyway. A weapon of last resort, and as he lay at the base of the tree he knew that this was his last resort. He may be destined to perish this day and join the corpses of his brothers in arms in these tall grasses, but if he had anything to say about it he would take his target with him.

"Do you really think that will work?" A laconic voice came from startlingly close, and it took all his willpower to not react. "A body looks one way alive, and another way dead. Trust me… I know."

Agent 20 did not react at all. His quarry was 20 meters away. Close enough to kill with a lucky throw, but he did not want luck to be any part of the equation. He was a man trained to shake hands with certainty and turn his back on chance.

The feet crunched through the grass, coming ever closer to their mutual doom.

"I bet you're wondering why you are still alive."

He did.

"I'm wondering that a bit myself. That trap was designed to kill, but it sprang around your foot instead of your neck. I tried to finish you off while you were dangling there, but your friend jumped up and took it for you. Your other friend shot at me and threw my aim off the second time. I had to take him out, but I saved a shot for you. You better believe that. The thing is…"

Silence reined between them at that moment.

"I missed."

Agent 20 lay there stunned. He had read enough about this man to know that he never missed.

"The way I see it, you are either the luckiest bastard alive or somebody upstairs wants you alive."

There was something in that gruff, almost whispered tone that reached down deep into the man known as Agent 20. A sincerity and belief that he had not heard in a long time. A belief that he had never felt… until now. He hoped with all of his might that he was doing the right thing as he tucked away the grenade and rolled over onto his back to look at this man… his elusive target.

Somehow, he had thought that he would be taller.

Staring down at him, wearing a hooded cloak of tattered purple was the young man known as Clint Barton. He was still young, only a few years older than Agent 20, but the weight of years and hard living had seemed to chisel him out of stone. He could only make out the bottom of his face from the shadow that his hood cast, but he could see a mouth pressed into a hard line behind the scraggly blond beard. He held his longbow by the top of the staff and seemed to be using it to balance on the slope, but he had no doubt that the man could draw and fire again in an instant if he so desired.

"Get up." He commanded.

He could do it now, he knew. Pull the pin and kill them both. Even this man's legendary eyesight wouldn't see it coming. The thing about it was… if he was going to die anyway what harm was there in doing what the man asked? Agent 20 slowly rose to his feet with his hands up.

"Turn around." The man once known as Hawkeye commanded, and Agent 20 complied. "Put your hands behind your head. Walk straight ahead."

It was hard going through the brush toward the cabin, and Agent 20 had difficulty keeping his feet going up the slope that led to the clearing. Luckily for him, the man right behind him seemed patient. Not one punch or even a jab with the bow staff greeted his stumbles. The man seemed to think he had all the time in the world. By the time they reached the front door, Agent 20 had enough time to realize that he didn't have enough time. He would have to bide his time until he had the opportunity to think of something better. In the meantime, if this archer were indeed going to let him live anything that he could learn would be invaluable. He busied himself memorizing the details of the cabin that could come in handy later.

"Stop." The archer commanded.

Agent 20 felt one hand yanked down from his neck and a metallic snap accompany a pinch at the wrist. Before he could react the other was similarly fastened into the handcuffs. He had done it with the practiced ease of a grizzled LA street cop, and the Agent was inwardly impressed.

"Those bracelets outta keep you out of trouble."

The Agent didn't have long to think about it before Barton pulled open the front door and threw him in. He managed not to trip over anything as he barreled into the cabin. Much to his surprise it was not very crowded at all. It was like most other hunting cabins that he had seen, but very Spartan in its furnishings. The most prominent piece of furniture was a wooden chair facing the door like a silent sentry, and it was this that the bowman threw him into ass first.

"Have a seat." The Bowman said cordially as he stared at his already seated guest, hanging up his bow on a wall rack with many others and countless arrows. "Stay awhile."

Agent 20, as was his training, said nothing.

Clint Barton sized up his defeated adversary with a critical eye for detail. The man was quiet as the grave, and wasn't quaking in his boots. He knew that he was unarmed because every single one they had sent thus far was armed the same way: one knife coated with a powerful opiate and one machine pistol that fired needles coated with a curare derivative. He had long since divined their intent and the nature of their orders. He wasn't quite sure what to do with this one, so he resolved to simply play it by ear. He circled behind the chair and threw a chain around the Agent before pad locking it behind his back. He tugged it a few times, judging it sufficiently tight to hold him without crushing the life from him. He was almost disappointed that the man didn't even grunt. He yanked the Agent's ninja mask off, noticing the high-and-tight blond crew cut before any other feature came into view. Perhaps he would not be so unflappable without the anonymity the mask provided. Clint Barton knew a little about how much bravado a mask could give you.

The cabin was lit only by an old kerosene lantern and the flickering fire in the stone fireplace, yet even in that dim light he was surprised by just how young his prisoner was. He barely looked old enough to wipe his own ass, yet alone shave. He pulled a bearskin rug in front of the chair and sat down on it cross-legged. He stared into the inscrutable expression of his captive and saw a little of himself in the silent defiance.

"I hope that you'll forgive me for not taking a seat myself, but I have learned the hard way that liars sit in chairs." Hawkeye finally broke the silence.

The silence continued.

"What's your name." He finally asked.

"Agent 20." The younger man responded.

Hawkeye smirked "Your real name. Even soldiers can give name, rank, and serial right?"

"Not SHIELD Agents."

"I'm surprised you admitted that much. You must have flunked out of interrogation school. I haven't even broke out the branding iron yet."

Surprisingly, the half-humorous threat didn't even elicit a reaction.

"You know who is after you." The young man simply stated.

"Doesn't matter." Hawkeye shrugged, pulling a black wallet out of his pocket "You guys all carry your identification cards anyway."

The young man's eyes widened as he realized that it was his own wallet. The man had picked his pocket without him suspecting a thing. It was with relief that he could sill feel the weight of the grenade in his cargo pocket even though it was beyond his reach.

Hawkeye pulled out the identification card and regarded it for a moment, holding it up like a bouncer at a club carding a minor. He flipped it over and back again.

"That is one horrible picture." Barton conceded.

The Agent let a whispered explicative escape his lips. Why did they make them carry those anyway?

"Wendell Elvis Vaughn." Hawkeye read from the card "Cute name. Your folks were a fan of The King I take it?"

He did not expect a response, and thus was not disappointed. He did notice something, though. The young man's gaze was not on him. Barton turned to see exactly where the gaze was fixated and managed a sad smile.

"Yeah, they are really something, huh?" Barton said.

Inside a beautiful oak frame that he had made himself was a12X13 photograph. It might have been a relic of the past to him, but perhaps something that this young man had never seen. Snapped ten years ago, in a different time, the portrait was his window into those better days. They may not have been perfect, but they were better. He himself stood in the middle of all of them, sporting that look of youthful smug arrogance that he just didn't see in the mirror anymore. The Wasp was on one side of him and the Scarlet Witch on the other with dazzling smiles that could stop traffic. He always seemed to be surrounded by the ladies then. To their left and right were Thor and Iron Man standing like members of an honor guard while a kneeling Giant Man still loomed over them all. Standing to the side, with his back turned like a resentful stepchild, was Quicksilver. He looked as if he thought he was standing in the wrong place and that crossing his arms over his chest would somehow fix that.

"They were something." Agent Vaughn corrected.

"What do you know about it?" Hawkeye fired back with an accusing snarl "You must have been playing with your GI Joes then."

"I've been briefed…" Wendell stumbled.

"You know exactly two things: Jack and Squat, and Jack left town!" Hawkeye cut him off. "Nick Fury and his crew wouldn't know the truth if it was crammed in their crack."

"Why don't you tell me, then?" Wendell said without considering what he was saying.

"Excuse me?" Clint looked back to the prisoner.

"I don't know the truth, you say, so why don't you tell me?"

"First off, I'm asking the questions here and second… you can't handle the truth."

"I want to know." Wendell persisted, figuring that if he was in for a penny he might as well go for the pound.

"What was that?" Hawkeye said, cupping his hand to his ear "Pardon my deafness, I've fought in three wars."

"I want to know about the Avengers. I've always wanted to know, and that is why I took this assignment." It was the most honest thing that Wendell Vaughn had ever said.

Hawkeye thought it over as he looked back to the portrait. It had been so long since he talked to anybody about it. He didn't know where to begin.

"We were Earth's Mightiest Heroes." He began sadly, and then looked back to Wendell. "Nothing lasts forever."

**Next issue: Earth's Mightiest Heroes**

What is the untold story of the Avengers? What happened to Earth's Mightiest? Check out our next issue True Believers!

_Author's Notes: Thank you Kaprou, PRO, Hellion, CWesleyClough, Captain Kobold, and the Uncanny R Man for reviewing the prologue and encouraging me to write more. Forgive me for taking so long to do so but I was wondering what direction to take it in. Thanks again and keep reading, because I've got some great stuff planned! _


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